


Primrose Path

by konoyo, marourin



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Artist Eames, Dark Humor, Emotional Manipulation, Hitman!AU, Kidnapping, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome, arthur kills people, ennui, hitman arthur
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:26:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11536014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/konoyo/pseuds/konoyo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/marourin/pseuds/marourin
Summary: Primrose Path - A path or way that is pleasant to walk but leads to disaster.Arthur is a hitman who's hit a rut in life until he starts collecting the works of the mysterious Eames--who just so happens to be his next target.





	1. Routine

**Author's Note:**

> The hitman!Arthur/artist!Eames AU that's been kicking in my head since IRB a few rounds ago. 
> 
> A thousand thanks to konoyo and swtalmnd for their awesome beta work! You guys definitely improved this thing.

 

“You should come by for Thanksgiving. Mal’s going crazy with the turkey again. It’s 20 lbs, Arthur. 20. I’m starting to get a paunch from all of this food.”

 

“Yes, because I am going to sit through you and Mal and screaming babies for dry turkey and soggy green beans.” Arthur drawled as he lowered himself onto the roof of one of the many glass buildings in the financial district of a skyscraper-studded metropolis. He unfolded the bipod on his rifle and he peered through the scope to double check the view of his target. He could see a middle aged man puttering about the penthouse suite of the Marriott, making his way from room to room while shouting on a cellphone.

 

Arthur tuned out Dom’s droning voice as he lay perfectly still, waiting.

 

His gloved finger caressed the trigger, just waiting for the right moment when the man swung back out into the living room. He drew in a breath and felt the calm quiet wash over him. He squeezed gently on the exhale and there was a red flower splattered on the floor to ceiling canvas behind where the man was standing just a second before. It fit in with the violent brush strokes in a strange way, becoming part of the chaos of paint dripping down to a red puddle spreading on the beige Berber carpet.

 

“Arthur, are you even listening to me?”

 

“No.”

 

“I said Mal would kill you if you told her her turkey was dry.”

 

“She’s a terrible cook and you know it. You’re just too whipped to say anything.”

 

He caught the casing and he got up, grimacing a little at how his knees twinged in protest. Maybe he was getting too old for the job now. 

 

“Am not. I’ve gained 10 lbs since I married that woman.”

 

“I know, you won’t shut up about it. I’m going home now.” he clicked off the bluetooth before Cobb could get in more offended defenses of his wife.

 

He dismantled his M24 quickly and easily and rolled everything up into his leather map case. He was soon joining the rush of harried men and women in suits flowing out of the building to the subway.

 

It was routine now. He had done the same thing hundreds of times. Possibly thousands. 

 

Wake up in the morning. Brush his teeth. Eat breakfast. Go for a run. Shower. Get dressed for the day. Check his e-mail. If there wasn’t a job, he’d go to the range, go to the gym. If there was a job, he’d work on his research and scope his target. Eat. Rinse. Repeat.

 

He wouldn’t call it a vocation per say but it was a job and Arthur was very good at his job. The best, in the private sector at least.

 

The private sector was a lot less stressful than being in the Army and it certainly paid better. He got to wear the nice suits he always used to dream about as a boy growing up in Kansas and he could take jobs as he pleased. He generally liked to keep busy but he had a cabin on a lake in complete isolation that he would retreat to, sometimes for a month or two at a time.

 

Life could be much worse. 

 

So Arthur told himself he liked the routine as he entered his sterile apartment. He put everything away in its rightful place. Rifle cleaned and reassembled and placed in the electronically locked safe, suit jacket hung up with the other clothes that were to be dry cleaned, gloves put away in their drawer, and he took a long, hot shower to wash the day from his skin.

 

-

 

“A freelancer, Arthur. You could say that you’re a freelancer. Or private contractor if you don't want to sound too much like the artsy type.”

 

“That doesn't really change anything, Dom.” Arthur muttered as he kicked over a vase stand. “Even saying I’m a private contractor just makes me sound like I don’t have a stable job. I’m not putting that on a dating profile.”

 

“You know that Mal is really hoping that you’ll come to Thanksgiving with a date. She’s been worried about you lately, Arthur. She just wants you to be happy. She has a friend she thinks you could really like if you just give--”

 

“I’m not going on a blind date with a friend of Mal’s again.” Arthur kicked over a coffee table just because he could. “I’m even less likely to come to Thanksgiving now.”

 

“Oh come on Arthur. Mal will kill me if you don’t show up!”

 

“Gotta go, Dom.” he turned off his bluetooth just to head off Cobb’s protests and returned to the task at hand.

 

He had covered up the Mozambique drill with a couple of haphazard shots and set about making it look like a robbery gone wrong. With gloved hands, he emptied out the small safe of its valuables and grabbed the easily accessible cash and jewels from the bedrooms. He would schedule for the entertainment station to be taken out when he left.

 

Arthur glanced around the living room one more time and his eyes lingered on one of the paintings on the wall. He didn’t recognize the signature but there was something familiar about the violent splash of color across a surprisingly naked canvas. He paused as he drank in the almost coquettish curve of a stroke of carmine and before he knew it, he was gently pulling the canvas off the wall and walking out with it tucked under his arm.

 

Later, he sat in his living room and sipped a glass of wine as he just stared at the lone painting hanging across from him. The carmine seemed to glow against the white of his walls and he felt something that could approach satisfaction at the sight.

 

The goods he had stolen from the job would be dumped or pawned, but this?

 

He leaned back on the expensive leather couch and he smiled a little. 

 

Arthur wasn’t one for trophies but he couldn’t help the small well of giddy warmth at this bit of stolen life in his otherwise nondescript apartment.

 

He sat there looking at the painting long after he had finished his wine and he thought maybe things weren’t so bad after all.

 

~

 

“Please don’t do this, please. I have money--I can get you money.”

 

Arthur had learned to tune out babbling and pleading a long time ago. He was putting the final knot into the noose he had slung over the rafter and he finished fastening the loop around his target’s head.

 

“Please, I have family. I have kids.”

 

Arthur wondered if he should have put duct tape on the man’s mouth. It might have made his job easier. He did a quick scan of the room--suicide note on the kitchen island for the wife to find, the slight signs of a scuffle were righted…

 

“Where did you get this?”

 

He gestured to the painting on the wall. This time he recognized the signature. He had long since memorized every dash and swoop of it, sometimes falling asleep while tracing it with his eyes.

 

“T-That? Oh it’s uh--wait!”

 

Arthur inched his foot back from the chair the man was precariously standing on.

 

“Proclus Gallery! You can have it.”

 

Arthur stepped forward and unfastened the padded restraints he bound the man’s wrists in.

 

“Thank you so much I--” The rest of what the man said was cut off as Arthur gave the chair a sharp kick, sending it out from under him. A pity for him the fall didn’t break his neck, Arthur noted dispassionately as the man gurgled and clawed at the noose. Arthur waited a few paces away, watching as the man twisted and turned in the air, his eyes bulging. He watched as the man’s kicks slowed to feeble twitches and eventually stilled. He waited until the feet stopped swaying entirely before he rolled up the tarp he had spread under them. 

 

On his way out, Arthur gazed wistfully at the painting. His eyes lingered over the whorls of gold and cobalt that twined together before drifting away from each other. He thought of what it would look like next to the carmine painting in his living room and he regretfully continued on his task, taking the tarp out with him and resetting the alarms before closing the door quietly after him.

 

That night, watching the carmine painting didn’t make him feel any better. It suddenly felt so lonely on his wall, a single spot of color in a sea of white.

 

The whiskey on Arthur’s lips was tasteless and he swallowed back the numb sensation that was insidiously creeping up from his gut.

 

He looked for Proclus Gallery on his tablet and the next thing he knew he was freeing his schedule for the next gallery showing they had with Eames as a participant.

 

~

 

Arthur nervously clutched a flute of champagne as he strode through the gallery, trying to move as quickly as he could through the exhibit without bodily knocking anyone down. His eyes flitted from painting to painting, impatiently looking for the familiar splashes of color and bold brush strokes. His mood was getting darker and darker until he he finally stumbled upon a quieter corner of the gallery and there they were.

 

He could feel the tension leave his shoulders as he just took a moment to breath, calmed in a sea of swirling, almost violent color. He stepped closer, his hand lifting a moment before dropping down, reminding himself that it was look, don’t touch. He quickly noted which pieces were already spoken for and did an assessment for which ones he would be able to walk away with. 

 

He thought about the carmine painting in his living room and picked the pieces he knew he could surround it with to feel that flicker of brightness return to his chest. He cheerfully filled out the paperwork, paying extra to get expedited shipping.

 

“Would you like the meet the artist? You were most generous. He’s not here tonight, but I’m sure we could arrange something.”

 

Arthur’s gaze flickered from the enthusiastic sales associate to the paintings, then he slowly shook his head.

 

“No thank you.”

 

Arthur took the following Monday off so he could mount the paintings himself and he spent the morning gazing with pride at his collection. Dom had asked a lot of questions when he noticed Arthur’s collection and didn’t have very flattering things to say (including many links to articles about the poor returns on art investments) but Arthur kept enough liquid assets to fund this kind of indulgence. Besides, it was his money and it’s not like he was enjoying it while it just sat in his Cayman accounts.

 

It made his job a little easier now, having an outlet like this. Whenever he felt the numbness start to rise, he would ask the gallery if they had any new pieces from Eames to hang on his walls. He soon started taking paintings out to his cabin whenever he went, his sanctuary feeling more like home than ever. He was remiss to leave them but it pleased him, knowing that when he went into solitude again that he would have the paintings waiting like old friends.

 

Arthur came back from his run in good spirits. Being out at the cabin always cleared his head, let him put things into perspective and refreshed him for the grind of day to day life. The buzz of his phone took him out of his reverie and he answered with a crisp ‘Hello.’

 

“Arthur, good, you’re back. Listen, we’ve got a big new job lined up. It’s three figures but it’s got to be done this week.”

 

“Talk.” Arthur leaned back in his chair and he flipped through his phone calendar. He could use a new job--he could finally buy that triptych he had his eyes on and might have subtly threatened the gallery owner to put on hold for him.

 

“I sent you the specs. It’s for Friday.”

 

“I’ll get back to you later.” 

 

Arthur hung up and he went to get cleaned up, readying himself for a long day of work in front of the computer.

 

Friday night brought Arthur to a messy studio, face to face with a six foot tall canvas covered in heart breakingly familiar, incomplete paint strokes. The vibrant colors almost twinkling at him in the glow of the street lights. He was just here to scout the location for the job but he hadn’t expected...there had to be some mistake, surely?

 

There was the rattle of keys behind him and the grumble of a low voice, husky with a smoker’s rasp.

 

Arthur turned and for the first time he saw Eames, the man who had painted every piece crammed in Arthur’s cabin and apartment.

 

“What the fuck--”

 

Before Arthur could even think of a reply, Eames was down like a sack of bricks.

 

Arthur just stared at the prone form for a long, silent second.

 

“Well shit.”


	2. FUBAR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of which Arthur and Eames finally meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So okonoyo is basically my cowriter for this chapter. It's her fault it had to be rewritten but also because of her it's written--so it evens out. Thanks to youcantsaymylastname for the beta!

Arthur paced the length of the studio, running a hand through his hair as he tried to slow his suddenly racing thoughts. He didn’t even want to think about how fucked up beyond all recognition the entire situation had suddenly become. Not only was his target lying unconscious on the floor, but he saw him. He _saw_ him.

Why was he here? All of his preliminary research had showed that the studio should have been empty for the night. He couldn’t just do it now - the client had been very specific that it should be staged as a suicide and Arthur always stuck to the letter for his jobs.

He felt a sick feeling low in his gut that he hadn’t had since he was in basic.

Arthur stopped pacing and he took a deep, slow breath. The cloying scent of weed and turpentine brought him back to the present. He swung his gaze to Eames lying slumped on the floor. Here he was, in Eames’ studio, surrounded by paintings he could only dream of adding to his collection. There were even more canvases lining the far wall, unfinished and vying for Arthur’s attention in their raw state of genesis. That gentle, faded splash of blue that could still be seen behind a layer of gesso where Eames had decided to start over…

No, this was not helping.

He couldn’t kill Eames now--not without casting suspicion on the circumstances. There was no reset button that would erase the knowledge that someone was after him from Eames’ mind. Even if he were given a second opportunity to off Eames at a later date, Arthur wanted to see those paintings finished.

There had to be another way.

Half an hour later, Arthur was rolling a bellman cart along the street to his car, one tarp and two covered paintings shielding Eames from the view of any curious passerbys. He’d have to return it to the building when he was done, but Eames had been far too bulky to fit down the garbage chute. It would be risky, but Arthur managed to duck out of view of most of the cameras, his heart hammering in his ears.

Arthur slid himself into the driver’s seat and reflexively looked into the rearview mirror. Eames was still passed out, his head loling onto his chest. It was only through paranoia and a healthy adherence to the Boy Scout code that Arthur had happened to have a syringe full of sedative in his jacket pocket.

Eames was not going to wake up tonight.

It was quiet and still inside the car and Arthur stared out into the darkened windows of the clothing boutique across street.

Now what?

He flinched as a police siren wailed in the distance and held his breath as it rocketed past him and barreled down the next intersection.

He needed time.

He also needed Eames to stay contained and out of any of the crosshairs that would inevitably be coming.

Arthur turned on the ignition and pulled away from the curb, heading out of the city and into the quiet of the country.

The road up to the cabin was dark and little more than a deer trail, the shocks of the rental sedan struggling over the rough terrain and snow. Eventually, Arthur parked the car and carried Eames into the house. He deposited Eames heavily onto the couch and zip-tied his wrists and ankles before starting a fire.

Arthur couldn’t find the appetite for dinner despite the packs of MREs and non-perishable foods that he had stocked in the basement. Instead, he unloaded the rest of the car, moving the paintings with much more care than he had their creator. He propped them up in the hallway, sitting them on the floor beneath the rest of his collection. As he stared at the pieces, contemplating where he should hang them, he fantasized about the possibility of Eames painting here in the isolation of the cabin. He tried to suppress the thought but it lingered as he went to do the rest of his tasks.

Arthur locked up the keys to his car in the pin safe where the keys to the cabin were usually stored, booted up the generator and turned on the lights in his bedroom before returning to the living room to inspect his unwitting guest.

He took in the patrician nose, the scarred eyebrow and the long sweep of lashes. His gaze lingered just a second too long on the surprisingly inviting swell of plush lips.

It wasn’t what he was expecting to see from the mysterious and elusive Eames. Arthur had pictured someone more sensitive in feature, definitely not someone who looked like he moonlighted as a cage fighter. Artists stayed inside all day and developed shaky hands from inhaling too much turpentine as far as Arthur was concerned.

What exactly had Eames done to warrant a hit put out on him?

Arthur pulled away. He’d find out more in the morning.

It was hard to sleep with the stress of his decision weighing on him. He tossed and turned and eventually just gave up and stared up at his ceiling. He studied the whorls in the wood planks, tracing them until he was as familiar with them as he was with bumps in the acoustic ceiling of his apartment. Morning crept through the window, grey and snowy, the cabin still besides a quiet shifting coming from the living room.

Arthur sat up with a frown.

The sedative shouldn’t have worn off this quickly.

He threw off his covers, still in his slacks and a tee, and shoved his feet into his boots. He slowly peeked his head around to look into the living room. Eames was awake, the zip tie that had been around his wrists was lying broken on the floor as Eames sawed at the one around his ankles with a shoelace.

Eames looked up, meeting Arthur's stunned gaze. There was a long moment of silence before they both burst into action, Arthur grabbing for Eames while Eames let out a bellowing shout for help. They rolled across the floor in a struggling mass of limbs, knocking into the couch and chairs. Eames even managed to get up, hobbling before Arthur slammed him back down and eventually got him pinned with his cheek mashed into the throw rug, his arms twisted painfully behind his back.

“Hey hey, we can talk about this, yeah. You want money? Most of mine’s tied up but I’m sure I could free up a couple large.”

Arthur had to take a moment to compose himself as he held Eames in place, his mind racing a mile a minute trying to think of what he could say to this.

“I don’t...this isn’t what it seems like.”

“Yeah?” Eames let out a hoarse chuckle and his weight shifted. Arthur could tell he was looking around and followed Eames’ eyeline straight to the paintings he’d propped up by the wall. “You a fan? I’m flattered. Why don’t you let me up and I’ll...we can have a nice chat over a cuppa to see what’s got you so cheesed off. I didn’t have dinner last night and I’m famished.”

“ _Cheesed_ -? Look. I’m not going to kill you, okay? This whole thing is for your own safety. You have to promise me you’re not going to run or try to fight. Then I’ll let you up.”

“Not gunna run. Cross my heart. Scout’s honor.”

He didn’t know why he was surprised when Eames’ elbow lashed out and knocked him back the moment he loosened his grip. The scuffle ended with Eames in a sleeper hold, going limp in Arthur’s arms within seconds.

This time, Arthur made sure to check Eames’ pockets before fastening him to one of the heavy oak chairs, cuffing one hand and both feet with steel handcuffs. For someone with such short hair, Eames certainly carried a lot of hairpins on his person.

Arthur set a kettle on the stove to boil some water, figuring it was the least he could do after knocking Eames out for the second time. He lightly pat Eames’ face to rouse him.

“Scout’s honor, huh?” he said dryly as a grey eye slit open to peer balefully up at him.

“Well you can’t really blame a man, can you?” Eames straightened up as much as his cuffs would allow. There was a clank as he tested them, then relaxed. He smiled up at Arthur, crooked-toothed and unashamed. “Besides, I was never a Boy Scout.”

“No honor to swear it on, I take it. How do you take your tea?”

“Two sugars, splash of milk, please.”

Arthur studied Eames, a little impressed by how he managed to make having been just knocked out and cuffed to a chair look as if he were having tea with an old friend. Arthur tossed a teabag in a mug of boiled water and stirred in the sugar and milk before he brought it over to Eames.

“Cheers.” Eames took the tea in his free hand and sipped noisily. He grimaced. “You make a shite cuppa mate. So why am I here if it’s not to face my imminent death? I don’t have as much money as it seems. Promise.”

Arthur frowned. How could he explain this? “I don’t have eggs but I do have oatmeal or protein bars for breakfast,” he said instead of an answer. “And canned beans.”

“Honestly, darling, at this point I’d be happy with gruel. Especially if it makes you leave the room.”

Arthur frowned even deeper. “Mr. Harding…”

“It’s Eames. Just Eames. It’s a mononym - like Madonna.”

“Fine, _Eames_.” Arthur could feel the tension starting to build behind his eyes. “Look, I know it looks like--”

“Something out of Misery?”

“Yes, something out of Misery. But I assure you, I’m not going to break your legs if you just stay put. I’m trying to help you and if you just cooperate for a couple of days I’m sure I can find a way to keep you safe. Now, do you know anyone who would hire a contract killer to come after you?”

“What are you, a fed? The British embassy will hear about this if that’s the case - getting kidnapped by the US government, just my bloody luck...”

“I _am_ the contract killer,” Arthur said coldly, to full effect.

Eames went quiet for a moment, the clink of his cuffs loud as he shifted in the chair. “…Oh”

“I’m not going to kill you. And that’s the truth. However, your contract still stands and I still have a reputation to keep. Do you know who might have hired me?”

Eames shrugged as he sipped his tea, eyeing Arthur warily over the rim. “I get into my share of trouble. And I prefer eggs for breakfast. And sausage.”

Arthur’s arms crossed over his chest. “Yes, well, this isn’t exactly the Marriott. The sooner you tell me, Mr. Eames, the sooner you can leave.”

“Look, darling, I know it seems hard to believe that anyone doesn’t love me, but the list of people who probably wouldn’t mind seeing me come to a sticky end isn’t exactly short.” Eames took a defiant slurp of tea. He looked around at the paintings and the cozy but well stocked cabin. “I take it you don’t come cheap? That might narrow the list by half then.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow.

Eames only shrugged eloquently. “I think better when I eat. Is there really nothing for breakfast?”

Arthur sighed heavily and took the cup of tea from Eames. He silenced the building protest with a glare and fastened Eames’ free hand to the chair, double checking that the cuffs were secure before he straightened.

“I’ll get you something to eat, Mr. Eames. Then you and I are going to have a long talk.” Arthur was going to need the breakfast even more than Eames. It was clearly going to be a very long day.

 


	3. Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of which you find out why someone wants Eames dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to fiamac and konoyo and swtalmnd for beta help!

Oatmeal wasn’t the most appetizing thing for Arthur in the morning, not even after skipping dinner the night before. It was what he had, though, and some dehydrated berries and apple slices to put in at least. He pinched the bridge of his nose as the oatmeal cooked and he tried to ward off the tension headache that had slowly but steadily started growing since he got up this morning.

 

He made his list of things he had to do, now that he was sure he wasn’t going to off Eames and bury him in the woods. He’d have to work out who his employer was and what made Eames the target. If he could unravel it, perhaps he could keep Eames alive to finish those canvases waiting in his studio.

 

Maybe even paint something personal for him.

 

The thought lifted Arthur’s spirits just a little.

 

That would be the least the man could do for him, right? Paint something for Arthur as thanks for saving his life. A custom Eames painting would certainly make the entire situation suck just a little less than it did at the moment.

 

With those mental gymnastics resolved, Arthur spooned out two bowls of oatmeal and brought them back out, half expecting Eames to have gnawed through his own arm by now.

 

“I can be good,” Eames said with a smile that was more shit eating than anything else, still tied up where Arthur left him. 

 

Arthur scowled when the man batted those ridiculously long lashes of his at him. 

 

“I’m famished. Mind…?” Eames gave his cuff a little tug.

 

Well, Arthur wasn’t about to feed him like a baby, even if he didn’t trust Eames as far as he could throw him. Who knew what he did to warrant the hit? Judging by what Arthur knew of him from just their morning with each other, the service was likely well justified and a long time coming.

 

“Don’t think I won’t break your arm if you try something funny, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warned before he undid one of the pair of cuffs holding Eames’ wrists to the chair and replaced them with the bowl of oatmeal. “I’ll remind you that I am a contract killer.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Eames beamed up at Arthur as he took the proffered food.

 

There was a breath as Arthur prepared to get hot oatmeal flung at his head, but when Eames just tipped it to his mouth, he let out a small sigh of relief. He sat himself down at the table, his stomach deciding then to remind him that he hadn’t eaten dinner the night before.

 

“So what do you charge? High five, six figures maybe?”

 

Arthur glanced over at Eames. He could see a bit of oatmeal clinging to the corner of those ridiculously full lips and he could feel his own turn down in frown. 

 

Eames’ hand went up in a gesture of surrender. “It’s for brainstorming purposes,” he went on, oblivious of the oatmeal. “No judgement from my end, promise.”

 

“Three.” Arthur murmured distractedly, his gaze riveted to the offending morsel of food, his fingers twitching a little with an almost compulsive need to wipe it off. He finally reached out and he brushed the oatmeal off with his thumb. That was much better. He deposited the flake on the edge of his own bowl before he looked up to see the bemused look on Eames’ face.

 

“Shut up. You eat like a child.”

 

Eames snorted before he slurped more of his oatmeal thoughtfully. “Three, hm? Well...that does narrow it down a bit.” For a moment his face took on a pensive look. “I’m willing to bet it’s ol’ Bobby Fischer.”

 

“You...why the hell would a senator try to have you killed?”

 

The grin Eames flashed him was sharp and a bit wolfish despite the crooked teeth.

 

“I told you, didn’t I? I get in my fair share of trouble.”

 

Arthur mulled over the bit of information. Robert Fischer was the youngest Republican Senator ever up for reelection. He came from money: serious money. Dangerous money. His father was the owner and CEO of the eponymous Fischer Morrow Energy Conglomerate.

 

What he didn’t understand was what association a blue blooded legacy like Fischer would have with a man like Eames. Why in the world would a man like that want to have a painter killed?

 

“I can see you working that melon of yours. I’m not a part of some conspiracy or nothin’.” Eames fiddled a bit with his bowl.

 

“If he wants you dead, I’m assuming it has something to do with his upcoming reelection campaign.”

 

“You could say something like that…” Eames’ sideways glance made Arthur’s frown deepen. 

 

“I can’t help you if you won’t be honest with me.”

 

“Let’s just say ol’ Bobby wouldn’t exactly be raking the votes with his constituents if it ever came out that he was smoking reefers and making the two backed beast with someone of the masculine persuasion.”

 

Arthur could feel his tension headache returning. So a senator in the closet--and a recreational drug user to boot. A scandal for sure. Particularly for a conservative running on an austere platform of ‘the restoration of family values’. Yet… putting a hit out on Eames?

 

“I might have also had pictures that I might have been using to blackmail him with.”

 

Arthur gaped at him. “Christ, Eames. I should have shot you in the studio.” If he wasn’t before, Arthur was really questioning his choices now. Of course the day he decides to fuck his own life over it would be for a jerk like Eames.

 

“Oi, it’s not my fault if the man decides he wants to send a dick pic or ten. He’s a closeted hypocritical cunt anyways, don’t go feeling too bad for him. Besides, I never said I was actually going to out him. He’s too good a cash cow.”

 

“Well, at least I know why you’re not judging my career choices.” A part of Arthur wanted to ask Eames why he needed the money after how much he made on his paintings. Another part of him didn’t really want to know. “He must have been an idiot to fall into bed with you,” he muttered, half under his breath. 

 

Eames’ smile broadened. “Oh, darling...you can’t blame the man too much. I’ve been told I can be quite persuasive.”

 

“And humble.”

 

Eames guffawed good naturedly. “That one not so much.”  He set his empty bowl on the ground. “Well, you’ve got means and motive, haven’t you? That enough information to get you started, guv?”

 

“Yeah, I think it’s a good start.” Arthur swiped his tablet to wake it and started to pull up the programs he would need to get working.

 

The cabin was quiet and peaceful, a perfect work environment. Eames, however, was all tapping fingers, bouncing knees and furtive glances around the room, the rustling sound of his movements making Arthur look up to glower at him. Arthur had the image of Dom’s children when they were forced to sit for holiday dinners and how they would squirm uncomfortably before starting to complain. He certainly hoped Eames wouldn’t start wailing and throwing tantrums. Arthur was always conveniently out of town on Dom and Mal’s anniversary for a good reason--he was no one's babysitter.

 

Eames flashed a bright smile when he noticed Arthur’s attention. “You got a telly or something to keep me occupied? I imagine it’ll get quite boring sitting here in your cabin in the woods. If you uncuff me, I can stay out of your hair. Promise. Like you said, I’ve nowhere to run to, right?”

 

Arthur resolved to ignore Eames, not wanting to give into his obvious attention seeking. He turned his gaze back down to his tablet. “Mr. Eames. You and I both know that I’m not stupid enough to let you wander around by yourself.”

 

“Maybe. It would be very cruel of you to leave me sitting here with nothing to do. I get very restless, I’ll warn you. I can’t control it, really.”

 

Arthur was starting to calculate whether the paintings on his wall were diminishing in value with the more exposure he had to their creator. He typed a bit furiously on the screen, trying to tune out the sound of Eames’ wheedling voice.

 

“Please? Just a pad of paper, a book. I need to keep sharp, you know. Art is like a muscle--you’ve got to work it out or it atrophies.”

 

Arthur’s fingers twitched and he could reluctantly feel his interest get piqued. He wondered what kind of art Eames would create, here, in his cabin. He wondered if he would get to keep the practice sketches.

 

Eames, sharp-eyed as he was, immediately jumped on that.

 

“A pad of paper, a pencil--a lead pencil if you want. Charcoal if you have it. I can just draw at the table. I’ll be harmless. I’ll go barmy if I just sit here with nothing but my thoughts to keep me occupied.”

 

Arthur’s lips thinned and he set down the tablet, squinting at Eames. “No funny business. I mean it, Mr. Eames. I won’t be so gentle the next time I take you down.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

 

Arthur rummaged around the bedroom of the cabin and pulled out a legal pad and some cheap mechanical pencils. He set them out of arm’s reach from Eames and he unfastened the second hand cuff, leaving the man’s ankles still fastened to the heavy oak chair.

 

“I need quiet to work or I’ll be taking these away.” he warned as he slid the paper and pencils over to Eames, stepping back just in case he got attacked with a pencil.

 

“Cheers, darling.” 

 

Arthur settled back down to work, keeping just enough attention on Eames to know that he wasn’t trying to pick his cuffs or fashioning a weapon. It was and hour or two of the sound of his fingers on the screen of his tablet and the soft scritch of pencil on paper before he felt the weight of a gaze on him. He tried to ignore it but eventually his curiosity got the better of him.

 

“What’s so fascinating about my face?”

 

“Not much else to draw in here and you have an interesting face.”

 

Arthur could feel his chest give a little lurch. He’d probably have to burn the drawings but…

 

He felt his cheeks warm, suddenly self conscious. He never had anyone draw him before. It was strange, unnerving to feel the weight of Eame’s gaze on him. On his eyes, his nose, his ears.

 

Arthur reached up and covered an ear instinctively.

 

“Oi, I was drawing that.” Eames complained.

 

Arthur hemmed and hawed for a moment before he finally gave in, feeling awkward and a bit like he would get made fun of.

 

“Can I see?”

 

“My sketches?” Eames riffled the pages of the legal pad a little before he finally shrugged and he turned it to face Arthur. “I just got started with your face to be honest.”

 

Arthur didn’t say anything, just stared at the lined yellow pages.

 

There in a few loose, casual lines, was his face. Brows furrowed in concentration, a lock of hair falling over his downcast eyes and his mouth set in a small frown.

 

He could feel his cheeks burning again.

 

“That’s...uh...nice.” Arthur cleared his throat. “Want some more tea? I’ll go make more tea.” He hurriedly rose to his feet and busied himself setting the kettle onto the stove, making sure his back was to Eames. The last thing he wanted was for the man to see the flush on his face.

 

He didn’t know whether or not he liked the continued scritches of pencil on paper anymore.


	4. Al Dente

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly written by okonoyo!

The sun was setting dramatically though the west windows of the cottage when Arthur finally gave up his search. Hours of digging had only turned up the number of the bank account where the money had been wired from and nothing else. It wasn’t good enough. It was far too likely that the bank was a shell inside a shell for Fischer Morrow. He’d even shot Dom a carefully worded email in a last ditch attempt to follow the trail further than just the account, but he was met with a resounding ‘no’ and an increasingly desperate invitation to Thanksgiving dinner.

Arthur sighed in resignation and opened another encrypted chat window. Ariadne would do this far better than he could, faster and without being traced. He needed the paperwork that would lead the money back to its source and breaking into Dom’s electronic messaging system was not part of his expertise.

She pinged him back. _I was bored anyway_ , then a kissy winky face. _You know my rates. Anything else?_

_Maybe if you go to the Cobb’s Thanksgiving in my place, there’ll be something extra._

_Absolutely not! No money is worth eating turkey that dry. I’ll have the info for you in a couple of hours or a couple of days, depending on how good the encryption is._

A couple of days? Hopefully not that long. He might just go stir crazy or do something he will regret, like admit how much he enjoyed Eames’ work. 

Arthur shut his laptop with a heavy sigh.

Dinner was some hastily boiled pasta, that Eames complained was not properly al dente, with heated sauce from a can. Arthur mostly ignored him as they ate. He was still smarting a little from having to hire a hacker and spend money on getting an asshole like Eames out of trouble. He reassured himself with the fact that at least he’d gotten some more paintings out of it, and for a bargain compared to what he’d spent on the ones he’d bought from Proclus. Plus, saving the artist promised future pieces - even if he was a bit of a dick. Never meet your heroes and all.

Eames cleared his throat.

Arthur glared.

“So…” Eames continued, undaunted by this. “I can’t help but wonder--why do you have so many of my paintings?”

Arthur pursed his lips. This was exactly what he’d been dreading. “They’re a solid investment.”

“...An investment.”

“Yes.”

Eames looked from Arthur to the painting that hung on a nearby wall, the carmine one that had started this obsession. “You spent all that money because of an investment, huh?”

Arthur could feel the tips of his ears redden a little at the look that Eames gave him. “And...I enjoy them.”

“Oh? What about them do you enjoy?”

Arthur was about to just put down his fork and leave, but Eames looked genuinely interested. Plus, it wasn’t like just talking to the man would hurt, it might even make this all a little easier. “I like… The lines. The colors. How stark the pattern of this one is against the white - like blood or mud splatter from the wheels of a tank, curling into a circle, a cycle that just won’t end…” Eames was looking at him strangely now and Arthur forced himself to shut up, suddenly self aware of his babbling. “Or something,” he concluded lamely.

“It’s something I painted when my VA worker suggested I try art therapy,” Eames said quietly, the phrase like a little olive branch between them. “I guess it’s not surprising that a military man like you would see what I was trying to convey…It’s like you read my mind.”

Arthur looked up to meet Eames’ gaze, bolstered now to share a little more. “This other one, I like how the bottom of the frame is textured like a fence or a metal grill while the top two thirds are like a blood red sunset, delicate and ethereal. Something about that contrast is nice. I’m sorry, I don’t actually know enough about art to tell you more than these impressions.”

Eames smiled at him. “It’s always nice to meet a fan. It’s not very often I get to talk to someone who genuinely likes my work.” Arthur couldn't help but feel a little more embarrassed but Eames continued on. “I’m thinking of calling that grey one over there The Butterfly. You didn’t happen to grab my paints from my studio did you?”

Arthur shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Ah, that is just too bad. At least I have that sketchbook. Maybe you’ll let me cook dinner next time, too.”

“It’s just pasta, Eames.”

“Oh, but, darling, it could taste so much better with the right preparation. And better ingredients. It was a little sad tonight, don’t you think?”

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight just because I like your paintings. You’re staying chained to that chair until further notice.”

“Even when I shower?” Eames pouted spectacularly. “I really need one after the long two days I’ve had. Come on, Arthur, this is serious,” he called as Arthur walked away to do the dishes.

And yet, not even an hour later, Arthur stood in the steamy bathroom, his arms folded over his chest as Eames stripped himself of his clothing. Mostly, he stared fixedly into the top corner of the room but what glimpses he did catch were, admittedly, attractive. Eames’ back was well muscled, tattooed lines dipping down from his shoulders and curling around his sides, accentuating the solid breadth of him. They stretched and moved evocatively as Eames stooped a little to kick off his pants and Arthur had to find another corner to look in, eventually just studying his toes as Eames’ bare feet disappeared into the shower. The steam in the room felt too thick to breathe.

Eames’ voice sighed out happily as water stopped hitting tile. The door started to slide shut.

“Leave it open,” Arthur said, looking back up this time and regretting it immediately.

“You know, I don’t mind if you look, but a man has needs,” Eames hummed, studying Arthur intently. Now that he was facing Arthur it was hard not to let his eyes wander and no matter how fast Arthur snapped his gaze back up to Eames’ face, his interest had not gone unnoticed. “Or were you hoping for a little show to get your jollies off?”

“Just take a shower, Eames. There’s soap on the shelves.”

Eames hummed something to himself as he grabbed the bar and started to rub it across his chest. He was still facing Arthur with a shameless smile, rivulets of water and soap starting to trail down his torso and it was impossible to look away. Eames turned, still humming his incessant tune as he ran his hands up his sides. The pale, generous curve of his ass was half hidden in the rising steam. Eames’ hand made its way down the wiry hair trailing beneath his navel and Arthur forced himself to look away.

“I thought you wanted a show,” Eames’ said, voice low and raspy and sending a pulse of heat through Arthur’s body. 

Arthur unbuttoned another button on his shirt, studying a stain on the ceiling. 

“Am I not doing a good enough job?”

“Shut up, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, trying not to suffocate in the steam as his ears and cheeks burned hot and telling.

“Are you sure you don’t want to scrub my back? Participate a little? It’d be a lot more fun to be a little bit hands on here.”

“Eames, shut your mouth or I’ll gag it for you.”

The shower clicked off and Arthur couldn’t help but watch as Eames stepped out, droplets still hanging off the strands of his hair and running down the curves of his body. Maybe it had been a little too long since his last, nameless one night stand but the effect Eames had on him was almost overpowering. 

“Oh, but then you’ll miss out on what this mouth can do,” Eames purred, taking a step closer. He pressed a wet hand to Arthur’s chest, drenching the white fabric and making it translucent where it clung to Arthur’s skin.

The klaxons that were sounding off in Arthur’s head were registered, then swept aside by the sudden swell of heat that plumed from that simple touch. Eames had put a hand on him--he could hurt him if Arthur didn’t take it off right now and break a finger to show Eames who was boss around here. He should do worse than that, hurt Eames to show that he couldn’t continue to push and prod at him like a bored child. 

Fuck it.

Arthur surged forward and claimed that smug mouth in a rough, hungry kiss. His clothing soaked in the water on Eames’ warm skin where they touched and some of his hair flopped over his forehead, the hold of the gel undone by the humidity.

Eames didn’t push away, instead he ran his hand up Arthur’s chest and over his shoulder, the other coming up to grasp the back of Arthur head and tilt it. His tongue was warm and heady in Arthur’s mouth as they kissed. Arthur didn’t resist being pressed up against the door, or the thick thigh that pressed itself between his own with a rude insistence. His fingers dug into the broad expanse Eames’ back, imagining the ink that his fingers slid over.

The door opened behind him, since he hadn’t bothered to lock it, and they fell backward. A cold blast of air knocked Arthur back into the present-into the situation they were in. But Eames only kissed him again, relentless and impossible and Arthur couldn’t say anything, do anything other than tug him towards the bedroom.

“Let’s get you undressed.” Eames purred as the door shut behind them, his arms catching Arthur around the waist. Clever fingers started to undo the shirt buttons from the bottom up, calloused palms smoothing over skin as it was exposed. Arthur could feel the bulk of Eames pressed against his back, full lips just brushing against his burning ear as he talked.

“Eames…” Arthur pulled away a little, turning to look at him. This was bad. This was dangerous. This was so far beyond the realm of unprofessional and stupid--

“Don’t you want me?” Eames smiled like it was a foregone conclusion, a notched brow raised in a double dog dare as those clever fingers hooked in Arthur’s waistband, tugging him closer.

Arthur shivered and bit his lip. Away from Eames’ touch he was wet and cold, goosebumps running up his back and arms. He’d already dug this grave for himself, hadn’t he? He might as well lie in it. Arthur reached up to unbutton his shirt completely and tugged it off his shoulders, following it with his undershirt.

“There’s a love,” Eames hummed, slotting their bodies together skin to skin. His warm hands pressed up against Arthur’s waist to start on the belt buckle and he backed Arthur towards the mattress, tugging the belt off and tossing it to the side. “You’re very handsome like this-”

“Eames, don’t,” Arthur interrupted, scowling. “Don’t try and sweet talk me.”

Eames flashed him a crooked grin. “Very well. I’ve better things to do with my mouth, don’t I?” His hand pressed against the growing bulge in the front of Arthur’s pants and gave him a light squeeze that drew a groan from his throat and an aborted buck of his hips.

It really had been too long, Arthur thought a little deliriously as Eames gave him a firm shove down to the bed and he felt the brush of those plush lips moving down from his neck to his chest, Eames’ intent clear.

“Fuck,” Arthur breathed, closing his eyes as the sound of his zipper being opened cut through the cool air despite the pounding of his pulse in his ears. He had to strangle back a sound at the first touch of Eames’ lips to his cock and he was helpless to keep himself from looking down at the other man knelt between his legs.

Eames looked positively sinful, smirking up at him through those long, sooty lashes. Arthur reached down and gripped at the short hairs at the back of Eames’ head at the slide of those ridiculous lips along his cock. If Eames’ mouth was distracting before, Arthur didn’t know if he could watch Eames talk without getting hard now. He had to choke back a groan as Eames hummed in the back of his throat and by the time Eames’ nose bumped against his belly, Arthur’s head was swimming and he had to transfer his grip to the bed sheets. He met Eames’ gaze again and he tensed when he saw the other man wink at him and start moaning around him and sucking him like he was being paid for it. Arthur hated that it worked so well, that it took Eames minutes to have him cursing and writhing against the hands pinning his hips down. 

“Eames...For fuck’s sake…!” Arthur grit his teeth when Eames pulled off of him, mouth swollen and red and slick and looking even more obscene than when they started. Arthur tried to buck his hips up for the friction and heat he wanted. His fingers sank into Eames’ hair again and he pulled, a little sharper than needed out of vindication.

“Give me a moment--I’m not as spry as I used to be.” Eames pushed himself to standing and rubbed at his knees before clambering onto the bed with Arthur. Arthur looped an arm around the back of Eames’ neck, pulling him into another kiss even as he hooked a leg around Eames’ and rolled them over so he was straddling the other man. He groaned as the hot length of Eames’ erection brushed against his own and he ground his hips for more contact. He rutted against Eames, their cocks sliding slickly together as he strove for his release. Eames’ large hand surrounded them and it didn’t take more than two pulls before Arthur was spilling on the expanse of Eames’ stomach in shuddering pulses.

When they laid together after, Arthur still catching his breath, the panic started to set in. He couldn’t believe the situation went so FUBAR. He was just supposed to keep Eames from getting killed. None of this - Eames finding out about Arthur’s attraction to the art, them winding up in bed together - was how it was supposed to go. Yet within the span of one evening, Eames had made him break just about every rule he had for himself so completely that it made Arthur’s head spin just considering the consequences.

“All of that to say,” Eames hummed where Arthur’s ear was still pressed against his collarbone. “I really don’t want to sleep tied up and this bed is big enough for the both of us, wouldn’t you say?”

This, Arthur could understand. Just like he’d blackmailed Robert Fisher, Eames was running a long con. And Arthur was letting himself fall for it.

“You sleep lightly, don’t you? So you’ll be able to tell if I leave the bed. It’ll be better and more comfortable than some ropes, I think it’s not asking too much, is it?”

Arthur laughed a little, mostly at himself.

“I’m still cuffing you.” He murmured and rolled over to fish in his nightstand drawers for a pair of handcuffs. He fastened one end to himself, then snapped the other around Eames’ wrist to a heavy sigh. Then, he scooted over as far into the corner as he could go, turning his back to Eames, his arm draped behind his back in concession to the handcuffs.

“Good night, Artie,” Eames’ voice said behind him as Eames shuffled a little with the blankets and settled in.

Arthur didn’t react to the pet name. He knew what Eames was playing at and he was prepared for it. So how bad could it possibly be?


End file.
